Read Online Dora: A Headcase by Lidia Yuknavitch - Free Book Online
Authors: Lidia Yuknavitch
Tags: Fiction, Coming of Age
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chucks cold shrimps over her shoulder when her motherpuddle isn’t looking … one even hits some old bag whose earlobes look like
they might fall off of her head from the weight of the pearls. Hey! Jewel drops! When the cold shrimp beans her, the gasbag looks up briefly at the ceiling fresco as if God has crapped on her. I sip on a white Russian I snagged off a table absent of humans on my way back from the pisser.
Ave Maria’s mother looks like a puffer fish. She is blowing bubbles at us … talking about something at us … something about travel abroad. Ave Maria is no doubt about to be shipped off to some private school far far away from the word “family.” I look over at Ave Maria. Ave Maria is bending and unbending her spoon and making her own spit bubbles with her mouth.
As often as possible, I steal peeks at the Sig scene. The slick business weasel is waving his little rodent hands around. Siggy’s shoulders look slumped to me. And his hair is all birds’ nesty. He puts his head in his hands. Is it bad news? Good? It’s so hard to read old people. Old men all look kinda like spent balloons to me. Happy just looks the same as sad on their faces. Wrinkled and sucked.
But then a whole man drama happens.
This other dude comes into the restaurant. I don’t mind telling you, he’s a head turner. Literally. You can see him coming from all the heads turning one by one to look at him. The kind of guy who looks like he deserves his own theme music. Basically to me he looks pretty much exactly like Paul Newman in “The Hustler.” Which Marlene showed me. Dang. Hotcha. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. Though it’s a tossup really … I could also go with Steve McQueen in “Bullitt.”
When this guy walks, he walks slowly, one shoulder at a time. His hands sorta … swing … not like your hands or my hands. Treasure hands. He has on a brushed silver suit coat and black pants and a crisp, white shirt. No tie. All the other mantards in the place have ties on. Not this guy. Silver hair cut close to his head. But what gives me a pinch of glee is, he walks straight into the Sig scene. He puts his treasure hand on Sig’s shoulder. I pull my iPhone out to short film it.
I kick Ave Maria under the table and lean over and go, “Hey. That’s him.”
She looks in the direction I’m pointing my iPhone. “Him who? Your grandpa?”
“My shrink.”
She turns to look. “The hot guy or the geezard?”
“Geezard.”
That’s when god really does crap.
Sig, bless his deflated balloon self, stands up, embraces the man in that weird guy on guy pretend hug way, stares into his eyes for a moment, sways slightly, and fucking faints.
Yep, you heard me. The Sig drops like a log to the floor.
I know. “Holy shit holy shit,” I go, slugging Ave Maria in the bicep.
“Awesome,” Ave Maria goes. Her lushofamother burps and looks around making fish lips in confusion.
I suddenly feel like jumping to my feet and yelling “Herr Doktor!” at the top of my lungs. Ave Maria gets a contact high from my excitement and starts her random high notes thing. I’m telling you, I almost pee my fucking pants.
The Sig … my Sig … is out cold.
All kinds of hell breaks loose in the swank restaurant as crowwaiters descend to clean up the scene. It’s easy to retrieve my beloved H4n. I’m invisible. I can’t fucking believe my luck. Whatever that ferret dude said to Sig, it was big. And whoever that silvery guy is, he made Siggy … swoon like a goddamned little girl. Whatever my H4n has on it is gonna be really, really good. I’m smiling so big it’s obscene.
You know what? Fuck the mix tape. Things have changed. What I’ve got is way bigger than that. That’s kid stuff. What I’ve got on my hands is real material. I’ve got … oh hell yes. I’ve got a roman à clef. And the key, is Sig. I’m not making a sound mix for a rave. I’m making a motherfucking man movie. Of him.
As we exit the room, Ave
they might fall off of her head from the weight of the pearls. Hey! Jewel drops! When the cold shrimp beans her, the gasbag looks up briefly at the ceiling fresco as if God has crapped on her. I sip on a white Russian I snagged off a table absent of humans on my way back from the pisser.
Ave Maria’s mother looks like a puffer fish. She is blowing bubbles at us … talking about something at us … something about travel abroad. Ave Maria is no doubt about to be shipped off to some private school far far away from the word “family.” I look over at Ave Maria. Ave Maria is bending and unbending her spoon and making her own spit bubbles with her mouth.
As often as possible, I steal peeks at the Sig scene. The slick business weasel is waving his little rodent hands around. Siggy’s shoulders look slumped to me. And his hair is all birds’ nesty. He puts his head in his hands. Is it bad news? Good? It’s so hard to read old people. Old men all look kinda like spent balloons to me. Happy just looks the same as sad on their faces. Wrinkled and sucked.
But then a whole man drama happens.
This other dude comes into the restaurant. I don’t mind telling you, he’s a head turner. Literally. You can see him coming from all the heads turning one by one to look at him. The kind of guy who looks like he deserves his own theme music. Basically to me he looks pretty much exactly like Paul Newman in “The Hustler.” Which Marlene showed me. Dang. Hotcha. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. Though it’s a tossup really … I could also go with Steve McQueen in “Bullitt.”
When this guy walks, he walks slowly, one shoulder at a time. His hands sorta … swing … not like your hands or my hands. Treasure hands. He has on a brushed silver suit coat and black pants and a crisp, white shirt. No tie. All the other mantards in the place have ties on. Not this guy. Silver hair cut close to his head. But what gives me a pinch of glee is, he walks straight into the Sig scene. He puts his treasure hand on Sig’s shoulder. I pull my iPhone out to short film it.
I kick Ave Maria under the table and lean over and go, “Hey. That’s him.”
She looks in the direction I’m pointing my iPhone. “Him who? Your grandpa?”
“My shrink.”
She turns to look. “The hot guy or the geezard?”
“Geezard.”
That’s when god really does crap.
Sig, bless his deflated balloon self, stands up, embraces the man in that weird guy on guy pretend hug way, stares into his eyes for a moment, sways slightly, and fucking faints.
Yep, you heard me. The Sig drops like a log to the floor.
I know. “Holy shit holy shit,” I go, slugging Ave Maria in the bicep.
“Awesome,” Ave Maria goes. Her lushofamother burps and looks around making fish lips in confusion.
I suddenly feel like jumping to my feet and yelling “Herr Doktor!” at the top of my lungs. Ave Maria gets a contact high from my excitement and starts her random high notes thing. I’m telling you, I almost pee my fucking pants.
The Sig … my Sig … is out cold.
All kinds of hell breaks loose in the swank restaurant as crowwaiters descend to clean up the scene. It’s easy to retrieve my beloved H4n. I’m invisible. I can’t fucking believe my luck. Whatever that ferret dude said to Sig, it was big. And whoever that silvery guy is, he made Siggy … swoon like a goddamned little girl. Whatever my H4n has on it is gonna be really, really good. I’m smiling so big it’s obscene.
You know what? Fuck the mix tape. Things have changed. What I’ve got is way bigger than that. That’s kid stuff. What I’ve got on my hands is real material. I’ve got … oh hell yes. I’ve got a roman à clef. And the key, is Sig. I’m not making a sound mix for a rave. I’m making a motherfucking man movie. Of him.
As we exit the room, Ave
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